


Paris Loves Lovers

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Denial of Feelings, Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, Fisting, M/M, Violent Thoughts, Will isn't there except for how he's everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How do you like to have it?” Dimmond asks, from between Hannibal’s legs, looking up and grinning his same easy, self-confident grin - the thing that makes his features, for all their soft, scruffy beauty, nothing whatsoever like Will’s had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris Loves Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: _S3 Hannibal/Dimmond affair where Hannibal is trying to forget Will_

“How do you like to have it?” Dimmond asks, from between Hannibal’s legs, looking up and grinning his same easy, self-confident grin - the thing that makes his features, for all their soft, scruffy beauty, nothing whatsoever like Will’s had been. 

 

Like Will’s _are_ , because Will won’t be dead, Hannibal was careful about that.

 

(How careful? He was feeling under some emotional duress when he made that cut. Is his memory correct?)

 

Hannibal remembers everything precisely, and Will is not dead, and when Will's knees buckled and he fell, he gazed at Hannibal in fear and pain and remorse, because he was sorry, and Hannibal let him live to make him feel that forever and for no other reason, and that is over now. 

 

“I like whatever you wish to give me,” Hannibal says, rolling the words out, and moves his leg, bringing in his ankle to press against Dimmond’s back and bring him in more closely.

 

Dimmond raises an eyebrow, looking delighted, eyes flashing, and swallows Hannibal’s erection down so fast that Hannibal’s vision blurs. 

 

Hannibal arches back his neck and pushes his hands against the waxed, coffered surface of the wooden chest where he’s sitting, perched on the edge, Dimmond kneeling on the floor before him, Dimmond’s shirt off and his pale, lean chest bare, ringed with bite-marks from when they coupled the night before, here in Dimmond’s stylish and beautifully appointed Paris apartment. 

 

Dimmond doesn’t keep any pets - laughed at the idea: _Parasitical so-called ‘companion animals’ with whom we seek to staunch the pitiful wounds in our emotional lives? Oh Boris, don’t tell me you have a weakness for them!_

 

(Of all the things that could be reflected upon about Will’s current status - not that Will’s status is worthy of any reflection at all - the question of who is feeding his dogs now is so utterly not germane to anything.)

 

Dimmond has many lovers - this he is at pains to make clear: _No great romances, Boris, I’m not the staying type._ He is not insular, not isolated and yet he remains apart, aloof.

 

Hannibal gasps a little as the head of his cock hits the back of Dimmond’s fluttering throat, and thinks of Tobias Budge, and suitable friends, and similarity. 

 

He could probably have had sex with Tobias if they’d had more time, if he’d been interested in it, if he hadn’t had a creeping suspicion that - for all his denials - Franklyn might have been there first. 

 

Tobias tried to kill Will, and Hannibal killed him for it, back when he believed Will worthy of preservation. 

 

(Not that Will is dead. Will is almost certainly not dead)

 

“Fah,” Dimmond says, pulling away and breathing deeply, braced with his hands on his thighs. “You have quite the stamina there, Boris.”

 

Hannibal blinks, and realises with a twinge of dismay that he’s actually softening a little. 

 

Pushing off the chest, he moves to urge Dimmond down to the floor and beneath him, Hannibal straddling his body. Dimmond makes an appreciative noise and palms at Hannibal’s behind, raking his nails over the skin and widening his own legs, making it clear what he wants. 

 

Dimmond came on Hannibal’s hand last night - on his whole hand, inside. Dimmond had a box of latex gloves in his immaculately carved bedside cabinet, and a large bottle of expensive lubricant, and a range of plugs, and Dimmond knows what he wants and takes what he likes. 

 

(Will’s hands were small but strong, and his knuckles bloody when he killed Randall Tier - he _did_ kill Randall Tier and he did eat Randall Tier and none of that was a lie, except for how it all was - and when Hannibal washed that hand in warm water and they touched, Will had gazed at him with his mouth slightly open and Hannibal had thought that he could kiss him, then, and hadn’t, and what might have been different if he had?)

 

Hannibal didn’t pursue Dimmond to a second party, two nights after their first meeting, because he was indifferent to him; for a while he subsumes himself into the touch of their flesh. He bites, he makes Dimmond keen and arch, and puts his fingers to Dimmond’s hole and chuckles in appreciation for the heat there, and Dimmond’s wince and hiss as it is touched. 

 

“You are sure you wish to be penetrated again?” Hannibal asks. 

 

“Mmm, Boris, yes.”

 

Of course the false name, but it is excessively jarring. Dimmond is clearly an educated and not unperceptive man, and yet he sees nothing at all. His poetry is - Hannibal was surprised to find - rather good, but his mind is dull, bereft of sparkle, quite ordinary.

 

By the end of the week, Hannibal must be in Florence, and never to see Dimmond again, and he doesn’t care. 

 

(Why is he here, now, if he feels so little? Why come back? He’s never been a slave to his urges. It’s a way to feel good, but who says he needed a reason? He’s triumphant, he’s free - he should feel tremendously contented.)

 

They relocate to the bedroom, and Dimmond gets a prophylactic, and puts it onto Hannibal with his mouth, showing off, and Hannibal enters him, roughly, and then stops, and groans.

 

“Turn over, Anthony.”

 

“If you like,” Dimmond says, casually, and makes a sinuous roll, and from behind - Hannibal enters him again - from behind, his dark curling hair, his scarless back, his little noises - from behind, he could be… he could… it could be… they could be… 

 

“Boris!” Dimmond cries, out, and orgasms, and Hannibal reaches round and clamps a hand over Dimmond’s mouth and is beginning the movement to snap his neck before he stops himself and bites at the skin of his shoulders instead, ravenous and vitriolic, as he himself climaxes mechanically.

 

(A murder here would detract from the overall aims of the plan, and Dimmond isn’t worthy of this reckoning, and Hannibal has no further feelings to require catharsis, because that is over and done and past, and he is free.)

 

Hannibal falls back onto the bed, feeling the sweat on his body cooling. 

 

Dimmond grunts, and reaches for a packet of cigarettes. 

 

“La Petite Mort,” Dimmond says, with a perfect accent and raises an eyebrow again, aware of how charming he is, sleek and sure of where he’s going. “Let’s just hope the big one is as much fun, eh?”

 

“Let us hope so,” Hannibal tells him, and waits for that thought to make him feel better.

 


End file.
